The Number 7 by Jessica Lidh

And people pick up on that kind of thing. But with Rosemary, Dad seemed genuinely interested in talking with her. I processed all of this as I stood there smiling dumbly, my attention focused at the back of the store. I was looking for someone.
    Before I knew it, Dad asked something awful. Truly awful.
    â€œAre you spending Thanksgiving alone?”
    After that, I walked around glumly gathering nearly everything on our list. I still hadn’t seen Gabe. Not that he would remember you anyway, I told myself. And now Rosemary was coming over for Thanksgiving. Didn’t she have her own family?
    I grabbed a cooking magazine near the checkout while waiting for Dad and began reading an article on “Turkey Gastronomics.”
    As I neared the end of the article, a familiar voice casually asked, “So was I right?”
    I tried to conceal my excitement behind the waxy pages.
    â€œI mean, I wouldn’t promise something and then not deliver, would I?” Gabe grinned, and I was sure he could tell I was a nervous wreck.
    Would you?
    â€œThey’re perfect,” I smiled and could feel my cheeks grow hot. “Alive and well.”
    He was better looking than I remembered. He was taller, and his eyelashes seemed to curl forever. Girls would kill for lashes like his. He rolled up the sleeves on his mustard button-down shirt. “I’m just glad you liked them. Happy Thanksgiving!”
    He took a roll of stickers from his green apron and peeled a big, colorful turkey from the parchment paper, sticking it on my fleece just beneath my collar. It seemed like his thumb lingered a second longer than necessary. My guts seized up inside me and I couldn’t breathe. And then, putting an end to our moment, an older woman wearing a homespun sweater with cartoon Pilgrims came up and asked Gabe where the turkey basters were. Really? A turkey baster was ruining my moment? I wanted to say something to the woman to let her know where I thought she could put the turkey baster once she’d found it. Instead, I just smiled and walked away. Gabe might have just saved this from being a disappointing Thanksgiving after all.
    It was 6:45 when I heard Dad rap at my bedroom door on Thanksgiving morning. The sun was just peeking its nose over the horizon, but the house was, for the most part, still dark.
    â€œDress warmly” was all the instruction I received. I could hear Greta’s loud protest from across the hall.
    He had coffee and tea in thermal mugs waiting for us in the kitchen. We each grabbed a piece of raisin toast and followed him out the back door.
    We trailed him to the heavy cellar doors leading to the underbelly of the house. Dad and I descended the stairs while Greta waited above. The room smelled damp. A naked light bulb dangled above a workbench covered in sawdust and small scraps of metal. A few stray model train cars lay in a lifeless pileup.
    Dad gestured to the table. “I guess Mom never came down here after he died.”
    He walked to a wall where a variety of tools hung from hooks and nails and grabbed a long bow saw, ancient by the looks of it.
    â€œJust you wait,” Dad said in response to my doubtful expression. “They don’t make tools like this anymore. And Swedes,” he added, lifting the saw for me to see, “use the best tools. My father brought this with him when he came over in ’46 right after the war. Don’t ask me how it got past customs.” Dad examined it with awe, as if it were a glistening saber instead of a rusty farm tool. He then handed it to me. “Now, let’s go find our Christmas tree,” he said with enthusiasm.
    The three of us headed deep into the woods. The snow had melted, and the leaves on the forest floor were a foot deep. I turned the saw over in my hands inspecting its wooden nails and sharp teeth and wondered about its owner. I couldn’t tell Dad what I was thinking. What would I say? How would the conversation